The Crass Menagerie
by CrossingInfinity
Summary: In coast-side New Jersey, citizens of Pierpoint have been seeing and participating in some strange things for quite a while-not black magic or occult activities, but wild and fantastic parties led by hosts of mysterious winged patrons. When people begin to die left and right from random animal attacks, it attracts the attention of the Winchesters, who decide to investigate...
1. The Large White Room

PROLOGUE: The Large White Room

The summer breezes could not have been more perfect if they were reined in by a stage queue. It was as if they had been captured in a jar and let out in controlled bursts by some mysterious machine. Yet, they were natural. They smelled nice; of lilacs and growing, wild things. They carried in the warm scents of the green outdoors through the wide-open white-framed parlor windows. And, for that, the angels were very grateful.

Angels, but only in the loosest sense of the word. While the real heavenly host was surely scowling upon them, these unintended side-effects of the natural order reclined in plush white couches and imbibed copious amounts of expensive food and alcohol. Their unhealthy and slothful habits had been tended to for some time now, and they had grown quite accustomed to these sorts of lazy summer afternoons. The butlers hurried in and out at their command. The satin curtains were loosed and he wind flung them about in drifty hazes.

The whole parlor was white; white wood floors, white wood walls, white fabric on the couches, white drapes and curtains over the open windows, white faux rug spread through the middle of the floor. Through this misty screen of color, everything else about these angels was made unapparent and redundant—for they, in fact, were the room. They were no less a part of the room than the couches. The feathers from their wings sometimes caught in the wind. A hanging one would be gently ripped off and tossed out the window by the breeze. Catch in the rosebush outside. Black and grey and red and brown and all sorts of colors. Spread out in wide, proud arcs.

They weren't usually allowed to show their wings off. Not in public, anyway. But it felt good to stretch them out in the parlor, especially on good days like this one.

"Somebody, pick a record," One of the women ordered sweetly, with just the slightest hint of venom in her delicate tone. She paused and pushed the red hair out of her thin face before gesturing to the opalescent vintage record-player in the corner of the room, sitting atop a carved wooden table. "I'm bored."

"You go off and pick the record, sweetheart," A male voice chimed in, scathing and mutely accented. Its owner had collected himself against the far wall, between two windows. Middle-aged, but still retaining his youth. The hint of a smirk had been carved into his skin. "If you're so bored with yourself, you pick the music. I couldn't be bothered to do it even if I wanted it, too."

"Balthazar," A stern man put in, "Mind your manners."

"Oh, my apologies, Michael, I forgot you were in the room. One should always be respectful in the presence of ladies, right, Gabriel?"

The one named Gabriel, reclining on the long white couch with his brown wings spread underneath him in oblique shapes, made an approving gesture with his right hand, smiled, but said nothing. He neglected to even open his eyes.

Balthazar crossed his arms over his chest and sighed. Despite his complaints, he too was bored.

"I want to stretch my wings," He complained aloud.

"Not allowed," Michael interjected, "Somebody will see us."

Balthazar mocked him idly, "_Not allowed, somebody will see us._ You and your damned rules."

"It's for your own good, Balthazar. Stop causing trouble."

The red-haired woman had, at this point, risen to the balls of her feet and crossed over to the record player on her own. She flipped through the dusty jackets and albums before finding something that vaguely amused her, removing it from its cardboard case, and placing it on the turn-table. Horns and faint orchestra noises rose from the gramophone caustically.

"Anna, turn that garbage off," Balthazar started, "Put on something we can dance to."

"No," She rebuked, "I gave you a chance to put on something you liked. Now, you have to listen to what I chose."

At this, Michael nodded in approval. Balthazar rolled his eyes, but argued no further. She had a point this time. Anna returned to her chair and sat once again, with her wings draped over the arms.

When someone finally spoke again, interrupting the peaceful and dull silence, it was Gabriel. He opened one eye and glanced at Michael, who returned the gesture with a frown from his place on the coffee table.

"Hey, bro," Gabriel sneered.

"What is it, Gabriel?" Michael muttered, not enthused.

Gabriel pushed himself upright, using his elbow, and slicked back his hair again before continuing. "That's funny," He sarcastically said, "I remember everyone else saying they were going to be here. I wonder where they all went off to."

"Raphael and Lucifer went off to the gun range for practice." Michael responded.

"Oh," Gabriel drew out his reply, "I bet that's going _just fantastically_."

"They'll get along." Michael paused before adding, "In public."

Balthazar joined in again, offering his input on the matter. "And, with some aggressive persuasion from father." He waved one of his hands grandly, "Uriel is probably mucking about with the boss-man. Maybe sucking up to daddy. There's a few of us downstairs. Dad knows, Castiel is probably drinking his brains out."

"It's dangerous for him to be out by himself," Michael sighed.

"I'm not volunteering," Balthazar chuckled, "Sounds fun and all, but I'd rather get a good hour's stretch in before dark."

There was another pause. Anna's foot swayed slightly underneath the hem of her dress to the tune of the music, and she let a wearied sigh fly from her parted lips. The trumpets fumed carefully from the horn of the gramaphone. It was very peaceful in the white room.

A flutter of curtains and wings. Black feathers tossed around the room in currents and eddies. A medium-height man in a trench coat fumbled through the window and collapsed in the center of the floor, breathing raggedly.

"Oh, look," Balthazar groaned, "Here's the prodigal son, now."

"Save it, Balthazar." Castiel mumbled from the shag carpet, "Leave me be."

Gabriel heaved himself from the couch in an instant, brushing off his clothes and snatching a half-eaten bar of chocolate from the sidetable before stooping to grab and shake at Castiel's shoulder. He gave Balthazar a trivial look.

"This guy needs 20 CC's of fun, stat," Gabriel joked, "We're losing him!"

"Stop it, you lot." Anna snapped.

"She's right. This is bothersome." Michael insisted.

Balthazar ignored them. "When's the next party? Do you think he can hold his own until then?"

"I think he can," Gabriel smirked.

Castiel remained half-consious on the floor. He mumbled to himself about the richness of human nature and was utterly unnaffected by its delicacies.

In his head, the music played louder, and there were the sounds of a great and fantastic party. Colors and women and men locked together in courtship and booming speakers and great times and far-away places. All of these things flung together by one word. "Party".

Boss sure did know how to throw a good party.


	2. Don't Think That I Am Wooing

CHAPTER ONE: Don't Think That I Am Wooing

_"Don't think that I'm wooing! Angel, even if I were, you'd never come. For my call is always full of 'Away!' Against such a powerful current you cannot advance. Like an outstretched arm is my call. And its clutching, upwardly open hand is always before you as open for warding and warning, aloft there, inapprehensible." Rainer Maria Rilke_

It was supposedly by complete chance that Dean Winchester ended up at the largest party in the entire eastern portion of the continent on his little 'vacation': starring none other than his younger brother and said brother's bombshell of a girlfriend. He would've rather been anywhere else in the world—despite the grinning façade he put off—and he well could have been, too.

The storming neon lights and endless deluge of gourmet foods on tiny silver trays held aloft by pompous looking people had not brought him to this place. Though, they were certainly a noteworthy plus. No; he had been informed that there was something big going down. A case. And he was determined, stubbornly, to crack it.

Sam gripped Dean's shoulder firmly, snapping him out of whatever thoughts were racing through his mind. He had his other arm around Jess's waist, and she'd draped one of hers over the lower portion of his shoulders. That's as high as she could reach without straining herself. Sam spoke without directly looking at Dean.

"Dean," He lowly muttered, "I'm going to show Jess around. Do some sight-seeing, you know?"

"Well," Dean gruffly replied, "There are plenty of sights to see." Briskly, he pulled a silver flask from his inner suit pocket and took a long pull. They both screwed up their faces in disgust; I, because my whiskey was pungent and bitter. Sam, because of Dean's awful habits, and because he'd caught sight of the swaying, feathered girls under a stage light that he'd taken to watching. Sighing, he silently led Jess away.

Dean waited until the pulsating crowd swallowed them alive. Fumbling, he replaced his flask and pulled out a small, folded piece of worn-out leather, running his free-hand over his chin and the sparse stubble he'd allowed to grow there.

Time to get down to business.

The layout of the carved-maple mansion had been engraved into his mind as such: a white-on-blue sketch of each layer of the place lying on the small, rectangular table of his cheap motel. There were four floors in all, including the basement, which held the wine-cellar. The party was held on the first floor, or at least what everyone was allowed to see of it, and all of the other floors were unimportant, blurring into fuzzy shapeless creatures the farther Dean panned away from the circular main room.

The whole magnificent place arced upwards, peeling through the upper floors to reveal lightly guarded balconies. The ceiling had been snipped to uncover a swath of midnight sky streaming from a dutifully clean window. Dean stood in the outer ring of a drunken circular dance-floor, headed by a man behind turntables, blaring awful techno-dance music through hungry-looking speakers. Beyond the outer ring, it was all sleek metal furnishings and intimate spaces and mood-setting light-play. Futuristic mixers. Trickling pathways of water that flowed down 90-degree angles into calm pools teeming with tropical fish. A few winged patrons milled about, only speaking to each other.

They had entered flagrantly only moments after Dean and Sam Winchester had arrived. Menacing in a quiet sort of way. Watchful. Yet clearly enjoying themselves among their guests.

Dean pushed his way to the nearest authoritative looking character in the crowd and began to question him.

* * *

><p>Near a set of heavy, gold-clad and clean maple doors, a small high-up table presided over the conversation of two sturdily winged men. It had been messily spattered with empty shot-glasses and feathers—a few black and a few grey. The music was loud. They were forced to speak louder.<p>

"Castiel," The older of the two greeted his friend with a slight and fanciful accent—one that had known many fine things. He gave off an air of knowing sarcasm as well. His bedraggled yet orderly appearance, his choice of tight pants and a v-neck even at his age—which did not look bad at him—proclaimed it.

"Balthazar," The other one shot back, his voice deep and jagged. The black feathers belonged to him—Castiel. Glassy and frighteningly blue eyes glazed the crowd without rest. He was dangerously drunk. He reeked of it.

The one named Balthazar leaned over Castiel and pointed him in the direction of someone appealingly strange.

"Look at him. Sticks out like a sore thumb, wouldn't you say?" He drawled deviously, "Who was it again? Winded-peckers?"

"It's Win—s" Castiel paused, trying to hold back his breakfast, before continuing again, "—chesters. Don't be so ignorant, Balthazar."

Balthazar let out an exasperated sigh, stepping in front of Cas and gripping the edges of the beige coat he wore very gravely.

"You want to know what your problem is, Cassie?"

"I drank too much."

"No," Balthazar exclaimed. He took a step back and slapped Castiel's shoulder roughly, pointedly saying, "You aren't drunk enough! Remember that party in Rose Bay, when you savaged that bartender?"

Castiel narrowed his eyes. "No."

"Good," Balthazar commended, "Because that's how it should be. It's a _party_, Cassie. _You know_ he throws all of these for _us_. You're supposed to forget what happens. My God, if you remembered all of them they would stop being so fun all the damn time."

"You're just trying to blackmail me again."

"I'm hurt that you think so," Balthazar clutched his heart earnestly, "Even if it is true. Now, now, Cassie. We drink all we want for free. Might as well enjoy it."

* * *

><p>"Excuse me," Dean opened the small leather wallet to a fleeing, aggravated man with a bushy moustache. The crowd pulled the distances between them apart like an ocean. "Excuse me, sir? Could I ask you a few questions about the owner of this house?"<p>

"Who asks?"

"FBI!"

There was no reply.

* * *

><p>"Look at him go," Balthazar joked, "Squirming around for information. What a joke. The boss must not know about him yet, I suppose. What do you think, Cassie? Castiel?"<p>

Castiel slouched over the silver table top of the bar where he'd been dragged to drink.

"I think I want to meet him."

"I'm beginning to think you fancy him."

"I do not _fancy_ him," Castiel roughly insisted, laughing to himself and the voices that ran through his head, "I just find him _fancy._"

* * *

><p>And perhaps, too, it was by chance that, after calling Sam multiple times through various cellphones, Dean Winchester had finally slowed himself by the bar, tired of chasing after tribbles and hints of whispers that were utterly untraceable.<p>

There were simply no leads. There had never been any in the guests, because none of these people had ever actually been invited to a party at the many grand houses that scattered the countryside and the city. They simply received word by rumor that there was a party being held at one particular place, and then they flocked together, following the crowd, and the crowd had no origin except

for the angels.

In the loosest sense of the word, Dean could now see. Because, not two feet away from him along the bar, two of them were engaging in a furious conversation, coaxing liter upon liter of liquor into their systems. One looked to be sleeping. Or dead. Their wings were surprisingly realistic. If Dean hadn't known better, he might have called them real mutants. But there were no such mutants like that.

"Excuse me," Dean sighed in frustration across the bar, catching the attention of the less drunk seraph. He didn't even bother flashing his badge this time. It had proved useless in the past. "Can one of you tell me what this is?"

The middle-aged, rascally-looking man rolled his eyes, moving frantically, "Well, that depends on what you are, and what you mean by 'this', and such and such and on and on. There's really not a correct answer, is there? How stifling. I think I'd _fancy_ a piss right about now, actually. So, if you don't mind, you can just speak to my dear friend Cassie over there." The man pointed him in the direction of another, draped across the top of the bar, drowning in alcohol. His beige trench-coat had been pulled under his armpits to clear way for a pair of wide black wings, which protruded from a white polo and drooped casually as if in deep slumber.

Dean meant to give the man a skeptical reply, even just a skeptical look, but when he turned around to face him, the man was gone with the crowd. Sighing, Dean swiveled his chair closer to the dead man and chanced tapping his shoulder. Castiel peeled his face from the counter and glanced up. Through the alcohol and weariness, Dean Winchester looked like a god.

"Oh my," He mumbled half to himself, "I was looking at you earlier. I saw you and you…you're _not_ from the _FBI_. I know you're not, because you're _too attractive_. Don't try to _fool_ me." The last few syllables were accompanied by a soft poke on Dean's cheek. He backed away unnoticeably.

"I didn't mean to disturb you," He coughed, motioning to the bartender for his own round of drinks, "Your friend told me that you could answer some questions for me."

"I can. Probably won't though," Castiel wobbled a bit in his seat, "I'm Castiel, an angel," He grinned and laughed through his teeth, motioning vaguely with his hands, his fingers forming a tiny hoop a few inches above his messed-up dark hair, "_Of the Lord_." Castiel broke into quiet laughter. The joke amused him.

"Well," Dean smiled back, humoring him, "That's nice."

"Sure is."

"Tell you what, Cas," He suggested, pulling a small business card out of his coat pocket. Dean turned it over and scribbled his number and name on the back in fragrant black sharpie before placing it snugly in the exposed pocket of the trench-coat hanging over Castiel, still grinning. "You're obviously having a very good time. I don't want to ruin that for you, so just give me a call after this whole," He gestured to the empty shots glasses on the bar with his hands, "Thing wears off, okay?"

Dean stumbled off into the crowd, nearly knocking Sam and Jess over as they returned to look for him. They exchanged bewildered, exhausted looks.

"Find anything…useful?" Sam sighed. Jess shot off a round of curious giggling. Something strange had obviously happened to them, too. Dean shook his head briskly.

"No. Just a house full of clueless drunken bastards. Let's get the hell out of here before the stupid rubs off."

"Agreed."

"Aw," Jess jibed, "I was just starting to have fun. You should have seen Sam, getting all jealous back there, it was so adorable. He was just _burning_ with envy."

"Was little Sammy _jealous_?" Dean mocked, feigning a pout. Sam rolled his eyes. "I bet it was one of those damn angels, wasn't it?"

"How'd you guess?" Jess sarcastically replied. Then, tugging the two boys' elbows insistently, she began a brisk walk toward the front door, where ever more people flooded in. Complete strangers, none of them useful, or formally invited. "Let's go. We promised Bobby we'd call before dark in the morning."

Balthazar returned to the bar with Gabriel in tow—the two had found each other someplace in the crowd—and immediately shook Castiel conscious again. A look of dumb bliss had been spread across his features with spilled drink.

"So, what happened," Gabriel insisted, "I've been told that you were talking to someone—d" The word he'd intended and meant was 'hot' or 'attractive', but what came out of his mouth were a series of loud sounds that meant essentially the same thing.

Castiel grinned stupidly and pulled the card out of his coat pocket.

"I've taken possession of his cell phone number."

In the nature of all good parties, the dancing floor was overtaken by a giddy group of girls—winged, like Castiel, though at this point he couldn't tell their identities, just knew somehow that they were women—that took the beat of the bass a bit faster. The man behind the music complied easily, a new song came on, and in a second the whole mood changed. Outside, Dean Winchester glanced at the spectacle from the rearview mirror of his '67 Impala. The windows and the opened doors seemed to spill a little more yellow over the brick circular driveway. The ground seemed to shake with a little more intensity. With their leaving, a whole new party had become. Something that had once been protected like a secret society that the Winchesters were never allowed to know about.

Gabriel and Balthazar yanked Castiel about the large bustle with an air of ecstasy. Nobody quite knew what they were doing. One moment, Castiel was overseeing a table clad with full shot-glasses and the next a table clad with empty ones, and then he was whirling around with someone in his arms, or maybe he was in theirs. There was no way of knowing for sure. Pulsating lights of varying colors made the whole affair fuzzy.

There was a stout man in a black suit and he was asking Castiel if he'd had a good time.

Anna and Rachel were chittering about something they found particularly funny.

Balthazar and Gabriel, lit by the shadows of a few remaining, staggering patrons, singing bar songs and raising their glasses to the sky, as if holy fire might fill them up.

An engulfing light-headedness.

The night finally ended with one last drink. Castiel blacked out.


	3. Partly Cloudy Saturday

CHAPTER TWO: Partly Cloudy Saturday

"Well, well, well," Balthazar's sarcastic accent bounced around in Castiel's over-vacant head. Vacant only in the _loosest sense_; there were things in there, things that he remembered, not necessarily anything that mattered at the moment, but there were…_things_.

"Time to get up, sleeping beauty," Balthazar insisted, peeling Castiel from the smooth floor by one elbow. Gabriel took hold of the other, and between them they balanced him out. "We're going for a day on the town, Cassie."

"I am not needed in your _endeavors_," Castiel groaned, "Go on without me."

"Sure you're needed," Balthazar chuckled. He turned up a knocked-over steel-top table and brushed it off, removing a flask from his pocket and refilling it with a plastic jug he took from behind a nearby bar. A rosary clunked around the bottom. Balthazar took a swig from the jug himself before tossing it across the room. It sloshed to a stop near a pile of sleeping clothes. Complete strangers.

Gabriel leaned Castiel against the table while Balthazar spritzed him with water from the flask. Coughing, Castiel puffed out his wings, sending a whirlwind of loosed black feathers and his jacket tumbling to the ground. Led and forced by his companions, he began to pick and stumble his way around the room and through the double-doors. They opened up into a wide hallway set with maple doors, labeled in gold.

"You're only dragging me along because father ordered that we stay in groups of three," Castiel accused, slightly less inebriated now, "Because of what happened at the shooting range."

"Sh, sh, sh," Gabriel calmed, "Of course not. We enjoy your company, little bro."

"Of course," Balthazar agreed, "Don't ruffle up your feathers, dear Castiel. You might offend someone. Now," They paused on either side of him, sizing up a door labeled promptly in all caps: _WASHROOM_. "Clean yourself up and get to looking presentable for once."

"And don't forget your binder!" Gabriel added before they opened the door and shoved Castiel inside, feathers and all.

The bathroom resembled something out of a 5-star hotel; white on marble on gold on maple. A large clawfoot tub crouched against the left wall next to a glass-encased shower with spouts covering every possible angle. A chandelier, dripping crystals, hung above the marble bowl of a sink. It looked very out of place in the bathroom and might have looked substantially better elsewhere; in the living area, perhaps, wherever that was in this behemoth of a house.

Castiel shuffled his way over to the sink and turned the hot water handle, taking a few minutes to let the steam wash over his face and mist-up the gilded mirror, spattered in the flavored toothpaste of at least ten different tenants. Three or four or five different bottles of the stuff sat, crinkled, on the countertop. Colored and tagged shampoos and brushes hung out of open drawers. It took a moment of sifting through junk for Castiel to find his own toothbrush. He ran it under the water and globbed a heaping ton of the less-volatile looking toothpaste on the bristles, propped it between his teeth, turned off the tap, and went back to rummaging through drawers for a spare binder.

There was one in the medicine cabinet and another one behind the toilet, but both the zippers were busted and they were too big anyway. Castiel finally found one, with Velcro instead of a zipper, under a moist embroidered towel by the shower-evidence of his brothers' presence in the house. Though the origins were shady at best, it would have to do. Quickly, he slipped his wings out of the slits in his white polo, tucked them behind his shoulders, and secured the binder beneath his shirt and around them; backwards. It worked better that way. Suffocatingly better, in fact. Smoothing his shirt flat again, Castiel dipped over the sink and 'brushed' his teeth once more before abandoning the bathroom and reuniting with Balthazar and Gabriel outside. He had forgotten about his hair. And a shower. And just about everything else.

Gabriel draped a beige trench-coat over Castiel's shoulder. Cas blinked gratefully, taking the time to properly wear and adjust it. Balthazar coughed, eyeing Cas skeptically.

"You look like you were up all night having _sex_," Balthazar paused, leaning toward Cas—who remained unresponsive—and inhaling deeply, before continuing, "With a liquor store manager and a tube of…_cinnamon toothpaste_? I didn't know we had cinnamon toothpaste."

"I didn't either," Castiel gravely responded, "We need to keep better track of our belongings."

Gabriel shrugged. "Oh, well. Learn something new every day, don't you?"

"Can we please just get this over with?" Castiel groaned, "I would like very much to sleep this off. The holy water took the edge off, but the headache's still pretty bad."

"Yes, definitely," Balthazar boredly feigned agreement. Then, with more force, "_After_ we hit the town. I need to run some errands. Pick up a few things for a conjuring spell I've been thinking up."

Gabriel let out a punctuated "_Ha_!" and shot back, "No more vengeful spirits, I hope. Those things are _la—ame_."

"No, no. Hear me out. This time it's going to be—"

They had started the natural ritual once more, the ritual of leaving Castiel to his own thoughts. He walked a good meter or so behind them as they spoke excitedly of hushed things, shoulder-to-shoulder. Hands open at his side. Greedily clutching at breaths the binder stole from him. Wishing he was asleep. Or blissfully unaware at another marvelous party.

As Balthazar and Gabriel were Castiel's primary caretakers in their youth—their father was a very strange and illusive man, a man they called father, but really bore no biological ties with at all—it came to pass that, now in their adult days, the three were better friends than most. Siblings without prior obligations. There was fighting, sometimes, but nothing that could not be solved with remedial apologies.

So, even though Castiel did not necessarily want to voyage across Pierpoint on a Saturday afternoon looking for mystical hoodoo, he could only pretend to be mad. He was never authentically angry at his brothers for their trivial escapades. Not really.

They insisted on taking Castiel's car, which had been safely tucked away in the garage behind the back lot, because it was the only one currently in running condition. The shiny white vehicle looked like something out of a movie from the 70's; the hydraulics system had come as a free bonus, and Castiel never questioned it. The awkward-moving car had been the object of many of his siblings' ridicules, but Castiel didn't let that get to him. At least he had a car. He could have a life with a car. A car made escape possible—all the more reason to have one lying around. Balthazar drove, even though he didn't have a license. Castiel couldn't see straight enough to walk without guidance, let alone drive.

The evening went by calmly. The piers were bustling with the usual weekend crowd of tourists, hauling heavy camera equipment and the like. Toddlers on leashes, lassoed to their parent's hip. Shrieks of delight and the pungent aftertaste of street-vendors' goods in the air. The quick _sizzle-pop_ of fast-working metal grills.

"Cassie, check that one out," Balthazar urged in a lowered whisper with a persistent tug on the shoulder of Castiel's coat. Cas glanced in the designated direction. A man at a bright cart sold hot dogs for a buck fifty. "Remind you of someone?"

"No way," Gabriel interrupted from Castiel's left, "Is that Samandriel? He stayed close."

"Let's not bother him," Castiel though aloud, "Not our problem."

Noncommittally, Balthazar rolled his shoulders. The trio kept up their steady pace; past the stand and its familiar vendor. Past an old friend. Samandriel had flown the coup a month before, and been missing ever since. The consequences of such a thing were unspoken, but well known.

Between intermittent stops at mismatched witcheries with names like "Celeste's Sorcery" and "Pamela's Psychic Palace" and "Lady Black's Readings", Balthazar and Gabriel dragged Castiel about their daily fooleries. Castiel hung back and enjoyed he summer weather and human crowds with a half-stunned and appreciative sort of silence. Occasionally, when the other two got a little too rowdy, he'd step in with a few criticisms. Such as, whispered:

"Balthazar, you know that making flirtations with these common human females will get you nowhere. Even if they accepted your suggestive invitations, you couldn't…_wings_."

To which Balthazar or Gabriel would reply haughtily:

"I was just joking around." or, "there's no fun in not trying. Just imagine…_the look on her face_."

And then they'd pull him to a different part of town with a different pool of girls and perform the whole thing over again. It wore Castiel out, but it interested him too.

By three o'clock sharp, judging from the church-bells sounding from the far-off white steeple by the pier, they'd made a circle around the town. The storefronts were slightly more populated now; their glittering neon signs seeming to let out filthy hums a little louder than before. On this particular strip, Castiel could observe the slow-moving cars coasting along the road, checking out the mundane and worn-down brick backdrop of a city. Balthazar and Gabriel come to an abrupt stop at the window of _Pamela's Psychic Palace_, glancing inside at the darkened displays. Cas focused on the car parked out front. Something shiny and black and silver and leather—hard-rock class. Something a patron of the downtown scene might expect to see. Upon closer inspection, a cassette tape with the word _'Metallica'_ scribbled on it in black Sharpie leaned against the center console.

"Cassie," An insistent voice—Balthazar's—beckoned, "Our dear friend Pammy's in this time around. Come on. Gabe and I are going to pay her a visit."

Narrowing his eyes at the vehicle, Castiel wordlessly turned and obeyed. The glass door activated a metallic ping as he walked inside, announcing his presence to the rest of the shop. Classic rock assaulted his ears. The lighting was dim and generously-priced run-of-the-mill healing goods had been scattered everywhere, making the store very hard to navigate. Idle conversation drifted from the back counter. It turned stiff the moment Cas rounded the corner with his brothers.

A familiar, busty, leather-dressed stunt of a woman scowled at them from behind a glass display box filled with muddled charms and hexes. Dead and dried things. Two equally familiar men and their blonde-ringlet covered companion exchanged a slightly astonished glance.

"_You_," The woman behind the counter, Pamela, hissed violently, startling her three other guests, "_You_ get out of my store. I told you asshats once, I'll tell you again—none of your company or mafia or, whatever you are, are welcomed here. Get your feathery asses out."

Balthazar proceeded, ushering Castiel forth too, while Gabriel hung back by the corner smugly, running his fingers through primordial dust that had accumulated on a shelf of hex bags. Cas and the shorter of the two men kept meeting each other's eyes furtively—he knew the man. At the same time, he didn't. Everything was hazy, and thinking about it gave him an awful headache. Habitually, Castiel jammed his hands into his coat pockets. His right hand swiped the sharp edge of a tiny rectangle of paper. It was enough to jostle his memory and make his stomach drop. Castiel ducked his head, effectively breaking eye contact with the impossibly perfect—

"—I told you, out!" Pamela roared, "Balthazar, don't make me fetch my twelve-gauge!"

"Oh, a _woman_. I'm shaking in my shoes," Balthazar quipped, "Color me terrified, dear."

"I'm serious, you lot," Pamela repeated gravely. Her eyed flicked suggestively to the other three she had been speaking with before. The two groups sized each other up curiously. The tallest, donning a mop of sleek brown hair, started in realization. Everyone turned to him, puzzled.

"You're from the uh—thing—the party—last night!" Sam announced matter-of-factly, "You were wearing the grey wings! You were the one hitting on my gir—" He caught himself suddenly, "My superior officer."

The girl with the golden waves in her hair stifled a giggle. Balthazar sauntered forward and leaned against the far-end of the glass-box counter.

"I can't be held accountable for the things I do when I'm drunk," He then focused on Pamela suavely, saying, "You have any—" He made a snake-like gesture with his fingers, "—dragonfang?"

Pamela groaned, "No, I've told you before. I stopped carrying that."

Balthazar shot her a sarcastic, puppy-dog look. She rolled her eyes, shifting her weight restlessly.

"Could you maybe check the stockroom, darling?"

"Sure," She muttered, already heading back, "Just don't start any fights with these pretty things here. That's Sam," She pointed back to the tallest one, then the shorter one, "Dean, and the young cute thing is Sam's fiancé, Jess. I owe 'em a favor. They're from the bureau, so don't mess around with 'em, Balthazar."

Though the warning was slight, Castiel still picked up on it; the threat was real, and there was something Pamela couldn't tell them. He turned cautiously toward the one whose number he had in his pocket—Dean. Dean grinned in a somewhat goofy manner. Cas froze.

"Surprised to see you here," Dean greeted, "After last night, I'm actually surprised to see anyone here."

"Yes," Balthazar hinted, "_Fancy_ that."

Dean seemed to be ignoring him. "How bad was the hangover?"

Castiel paused. The phrase _'holy water helped a bit'_ was caught an inch close to rolling off his tongue; he thought about a response. He puked an answer out thoughtlessly. Or, rather, an ill-formed question.

"Bad was the…hangover?"

"He slept on the floor," Balthazar chipped in helpfully, "He'd still be sleeping now if it weren't for our looking after him, right, Gabe?" After Gabriel's chuckling agreement, Balthazar drabbled on, "Anyway, I don't think Cas has the slightest idea of what happened last night."

Castiel grimaced in deep-seated discomfort. "I remember it. Of course I do."

"Of course you do," Gabriel mouthed the words quietly, winking.

A slight buzz punctured the air. Sam pulled a cellphone out of his pocket, punched a few buttons, and sighed, giving his brother a meaningful glance.

"Another one?" Dean gruffly asked. Sam gave a silent answer and was led briskly out of the store by Jess—his so-called superior officer, short by about half a person. The _ping_ of the door called out their departure.

An awkward and meaningless silence followed, with Dean leaned casually against a stack of unlabeled boxed goods; Balthazar smirking wildly, playing with the dust in Pamela's ashtray; Gabriel pulling candy out of his bottomless pockets; Castiel staring unabashedly wherever he might find due cause for his interest. Occasionally, in the separate back store-room, Pamela would drop something or curse loudly, and that would fill the air enough for all of them.

Dean rolled up the cuff of his suit sleeve and checked his watch.

"So," He deeply asked, ushering in the return of conversation, "Now that we're sober, can I ask you why you were at that party last night?"

"Who's asking?" Balthazar muttered. In the midst of his thoughtless curiosity, he dabbed his fingers in a thick coating of ash and touched it to the tip of his tongue. Recoiling, he spat them back out. Gabriel widened his eyes in silent laughter and Dean's face screwed up in confused disbelief.

"That," Balthazar remarked, "Is absolutely horrid."

Dean turned decidedly to Castiel, a plaster grin slapped onto his rough features.

"This is just a matter of dotting some I's and crossing some T's, I assure you…_all_," He said, "There's been some mysterious disappearances around town, some bodies showing up, you know. That sort of thing."

"You're talking about the case with the animal attacks?" Castiel frowned doubtfully. Dean motioned in what was more or less agreement.

"Like I said, dotting I's and crossing T's." Dean persisted, taking out a notepad and clicking a small pen, "Do you know if any of the victims were at your parties prior, during, or after their deaths?"

Castiel paused again. This time, in organized thought.

"They're not _our_ parties." He responded, "We don't throw them."

"But a few of my sources say that you're always attending."

"That's simple," Balthazar waved, as if it were obvious, "We don't throw the parties, Mr. Suit-and-Tie, but they are _for_ us. Maybe it's time to put that noggin of yours to use, huh?"

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me? Can you tell me who does throw them, then?"

"What's it to you?" Gabriel asked.

"It's a matter of federal importance."

"Well, then, no," Gabriel went on. Castiel found himself battling to keep up, staring in all different directions with each sound that was made. It had a dizzying effect on him. Meanwhile, Pamela had returned from the storeroom with nothing to show for it. Cas had the sinking feeling that Balthazar hadn't come here for the dragonfang.

"Why not?" Dean insisted angrily, "I will use force if I have to."

"There's no need for this," Castiel wearily interrupted.

Gabriel rolled his eyes. "Even if I knew," He added to his previous statement, "I still wouldn't tell you. But I don' know who throws them, no. As far as I know, the sentries have the greatest chance of having that kind of information. Or Chuck, but I'm not talking to him."

"Chuck?" Dean repeated, "Think I could talk to him?"

"No," Castiel responded quickly, "Well, yes, but I don't know where he is right now."

"I wouldn't push it," Pamela piped in. She caught Balthazar's hand as he took another swipe at her ashtray and stole the tray from under it, moving it hurriedly to the other end of the counter. "Chuck's their deadbeat father, Dean. And he don't talk much sense, if you ask me. All prophecy and mystic, too much false-face."

"Well," Dean tipped his notepad casually, "Next time you catch wind of him, give me a call."

"Sorry about the ruckus, Dean," Pamela waved once, goodbye, "I'll call ahead tomorrow and tell you what all I know, okay, hot-stuff?"

"I think it's about time we left, as well," Balthazar said slyly.

"Well, would you look at that, time to go already," Gabriel agreed.

"Hold on," Castiel argued, "We just got here."

"And they don't have what we need so-"

"-Hey," Pamela interjected, glancing at Balthazar sternly, "Don't say I didn't warn you boys. I try to look out for you, I really do. Even if I hate your guts."

Balthazar gave his best fake-flattered look on his way out, brushing past Gabriel, Cas, and Dean haphazardly. "I appreciate it, Pammy," He threw over his shoulder, "I really do, but we can handle ourselves!"

Pamela rolled her eyes. "Do you really?" she muttered under his breath. Castiel shot her an apology before being tugged outside by Gabriel, insistent on beating Dean through the front door.

_Ping Ping Ping._

"Are you sure you guys got nothing to help," he frustratedly urged, "Nothing to help the investigation?"

"What do I look like to you," Balthazar shot back, "A database? I don't think so. That's Cassie, not me."

"I am not a database," Castiel darkly insisted.

Gabriel and Balthazar both threw him wearied expressions. Castiel blinked, half due to the summer sun, low in the sky and shining against his blue irises, half due to his own incomprehension.

"I have a lot of free time," he narrowed his eyes, "And I choose to spend it wisely. In the library. There are lots of very informative books in there."

They came to a collective halt beside the passenger door of the Impala parked by the side of the road. Dean leaned against it casually and watched the strange men bicker amongst themselves-it made him feel slightly better about himself to know that there were other people out there who disagreed with one another more than he and Sammy.

_They'd_ once had a fight for three whole months; it'd ended with Sammy running out and returning later with a blonde girl who knew everything about Dean, and a wedding ring to boot. Needless to say, this small argument brought him much more pleasure than that one. At least he and Sam were on good terms now. Good enough terms for Sam and Jess to call a taxi and leave him with his Impala.

Self-consciously, with nothing better to do, Dean Winchester reached into one of his inner suit pockets, withdrew his car keys, and twirled them around on his right pointer finger before yawning and unlocking the doors. He moved around the driver's side in a practiced and hard manner—everything about him spoke rough around the edges, yet there was a certain implacable softness to him, too. Something not even Castiel could quite put a finger on.

Cas diverted Gabriel and Balthazar by bringing up something only the two of them could argue about—who'd raided the candy bowl in the parlor last week?—and dodged around their quarrel expertly. He pressed his palms flat against the passenger window of the Impala, leaning forward, mouth working to find some word that might convince him to—

Dean stopped halfway in the driver's door and widened his eyes in a way that seemed to know everything about Cas, yet nothing at all.

"Is there…" Dean suggested, "Something you want to tell me? Is something wrong?"

"I'm…I'm sorry, yes. There's something wrong. It's…your face. It's very distracting. Could you maybe…turn around when I'm speaking to you or…nevermind. My apologies."

There had been a pause in the fighting just long enough for his prospective brothers to overhear. Balthazar and Gabriel broke out into unrestricted, side-splitting laughter.

"Castiel!"

"Oh, Cassie, you know we have to tell everyone about this, don't you?!"

"I would appreciate it if you wouldn't," Castiel muttered, turning on his heel, "Let's go. Where's the car?"

"Aren't you gonna say goodbye to your new friend?"

"No, because he's not my friend."

* * *

><p>"He <em>what<em>?" Anna murmured on a single breath, her whole being held aloft by the supple breezes that nibbled softly on her pale white dress. She stretched out her hand and snagged a small glass of Champaign from a passing tray, giving a cursory nod to the tray's holder. Beside her, a girl by the name of Naomi kept notes in her mind of the entire conversation.

"You say Castiel is getting back to his old self," Anna commented after a moment of thought, sighing, "So, it doesn't really matter how he comes about it now, does it?"

"Of course not," Balthazar closed his eyes in thought, "I can't help but be worried about him."

"Naturally, you are," Anna's chiming voice trilled up and down with silver-lined facts—listening to her speak was like hitting a bell at odd angles. It was never quite the same, and always pretty to listen to. "You do care for him, after all. I'm afraid of what might happen to him if you weren't here, Balthazar, though I do find you annoying at times…with Gabe always running around with Michael and father always…well, you know how it is, anyways. Still, I'm sure there's nothing to be worried about."

"So you've said," he grumbled, "But I'm more worried about what our superiors will think if they find out."

Anna crossly sniffed, pouring back another sip of champaign. "They won't."

"But what if they do?"

Anna whirled, took a deep breath, and twirled her fingers around the stem of her wineglass contemplatively. The blood-scarlet liquid within sloshed, whispering around the glass. Naomi observed the motion of the wine with the eyes of an artist; her wonder might have been equivalent to those who tasted the substance, for play, or for artifice, or for the slick and burn of it down their throats. The tasters love burned in her pupils. They widened and dilated quickly, attentive to every detail.

"Castiel knows," Anna finally responded, deft as usual, "Everyone knows what happens if you rebel, Balthazar."

He sighed, resigned. "I suppose so."

"Free will and all that pomp, right?"

"Yes, yes. All that pomp, frippery, circumstance, and all. I should be going, shouldn't I? More parties to get to."

"You should, dear. Yes, that would good."

They parted ways; Balthazar through the hallway leading back to the main floor and Anna staying where she was. Naomi stood with her, a hard-lined statue of business. Her eyes narrowed and her rounded face tipped to the side as she attempted to dip into the farthest wells of her recognizable knowledge.

"Dean Winchester?" she spoke robotically, "The hunter?"

Anna nodded and sipped her wine slowly. "Yes. The hunter."

"Mm."

"Yes. Should make things interesting," Anna smiled behind her wineglass as she lowered it again, delicate in doing so. She shot Naomi a satisfied look and stared down the hallway wistfully. Balthazar sang to himself, off-tune, and danced a little to a different song that played in his head. "Oh, how I do love a good party!"


End file.
